


Crescit Eundo

by h0ldthiscat



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: alcohol and suffering, both post series and pre series stuff, but there's also some laughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0ldthiscat/pseuds/h0ldthiscat
Summary: She has his memory and it sneaks up on her sometimes, his presence and his absence a constant refrain.





	Crescit Eundo

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, Kim's endgame is "more." This is my first fic for BCS, so enjoy! And comment to let me know what worked and what didn't.

It was the next logical step. Her final evolution. Though, it’s strange to think of anything as final; she’s still two years from fifty, life is by no means over for the Honorable Judge Wexler of the 10th Circuit Court. She’s all grown up, like she hoped one day she’d be. She has a jacuzzi in her en suite and a Roth IRA. She gives guest lectures at her alma mater. She has one of those minibar carts in her dining room. She has a dining room.   
_____

Once she got the idea, it wouldn’t let her go. She couldn’t stop thinking the phrase _Judge Wexler_ , whispering it to herself as she drew on her eyeliner in the morning, as she waited for the elevator with aching feet, as she felt her chin hit her chest for the third time rereading closing arguments before the bluish glow of her computer screen. So, like most of the important decisions in her life, she applied for a judgeship before she could think twice about it. She didn’t tell Jimmy. 

They’d already been seeing less and less of each other; he’d been able to get his own place not long after Chuck died. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he’d told her, landing a kiss on her cheek as he packed the trunk of his car, his brother not dead a year. “How are you supposed to miss me if I’m always underfoot around here?”

She wanted to tell him he’d never been underfoot, that he made her laugh harder than anyone ever had in her whole life. That he was a human interrobang and life with him felt like taking a sharp turn without a seatbelt, but she knew she was safe with him. She wanted to tell him so badly her throat burned, but instead she waved as his car spluttered out of her parking lot, and then she didn’t see him for a week. 

After that it was three weeks. Then ten days. Slowly, his ads started cropping up around town, with that voice that was and wasn’t his, that smile that seemed just a little too desperate. After six or seven months like this, they spent an incredible week together in Mexico, neither of them making promises but clinging to each other at night, like the other would evaporate if they let go. 

When they got back they shared a cab from the airport. He kissed her goodbye in front of her apartment building and then she didn’t see him for almost a year.  
_____

But she is Judge Wexler now. And Judge Wexler has a big backyard with a retaining wall and a deck with a faded striped awning. She always thought she’d spend more time out here. Have a cup of coffee in October, wrapped in a sweater. Do a crossword or something. Things that normal people are supposed to enjoy.

She has a therapist named Alicia whom she sees once every two weeks. 

Occasionally she goes to the animal shelter and looks at the dogs, but the vet tech always says the same thing: “lots of attention, lots of exercise, lots of love.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hears Jimmy say, _yeah, you and me both, pal._ The mutts’ scruffy little faces stare up at her but she knows she won’t be taking any of them home. She always scans for one of those small, lazy lapdogs with hair flopping into its eyes, one she could just tuck under her robe and feed treats to at the bench. She snorts at the image, and thinks how she can’t wait to tell Jimmy, and then she’s not laughing at all. 

She sits in her car--a brand new Hyundai with a spoiler on the back--a smokes two cigarettes in a row with the window open, even though it’s over 100 degrees. She’s sure she can find him if she really wants to. Does she want to? 

She has his memory and it sneaks up on her sometimes, his presence and his absence a constant refrain.  
_____

The drive to Santa Fe should only take her an hour from HHM, but she gets stuck behind a produce truck going the speed limit, and is uncharacteristically late pulling into the neat little complex of corporate townhomes. Studying the impressive stonework outside and the snazzy recessed lighting along the sidewalks she wonders, not for the first time, if she should consider a move to Davis and Main herself. 

“Ta-daaaaa,” she says, brandishing a bottle of champagne when he opens the front door. 

“You trying to steal my thunder? That’s my line,” he gruffs with a smile. 

Jimmy pulls her into a hug, his arm wrapping around her waist as he lands a kiss against her temple and relieves her of the bottle. He ushers her inside, so new it still smells like lemon Pledge and PineSol. 

“I know,” he says as she takes a big inhale. “I was thinking we’d lock ourselves in the pantry and huff the fumes til we get higher than Snoop Dogg.” 

She looks around appraisingly; she knows well the feeling of being intimidated by someone else’s home but feeling it about Jimmy is a new sensation. Like he can read her mind, he says, “Don’t worry, Wexler. I’m not gonna Angelina you.”

Kim snorts. “What?”

“Angelina Jolie?” He over-enunciates the French name. “When she and Billy Bob got married, he was the big star. But now her career’s taken off like a rocket and she’s about to leave him in the dust.”

“Jimmy, I wasn’t--”

“Bet you ten bucks they don’t last the year.”

“Jimmy.” She rests her open palm on the smooth--is that granite?--countertop in the open kitchen. “I don’t resent you for any of this. Not one bit. You know that, right?”

He smiles, his smile that’s almost a grimace, but she knows him well enough to know it’s a smile. “I know,” he says. He picks the foil on the champagne bottle and shakes it up and down a few times. “Shall we toast?”

“Jimmy, wait, no--”

“To new beginnings--” Another shake. “--and corporate housing--” And another. “--and a car so fancy I can’t figure out how to work the radio.”

“Jimmy, the ceiling, you’re gonna--” 

She tries to take back the bottle, but he yanks it away, eliciting a girlish shriek from her as his hands move towards the cork. 

“Don’t you dare!” she shouts.

But it’s too late. With one forceful push of his thumb the cork goes flying in the air, and champagne spurts from the bottle like a long-dormant geyser. Jimmy whoops with delight and Kim does too, reminded of that rush of adrenaline from running through a sprinkler for the first time as a kid, the water still cold. The liquid lands with a loud splatter on the desert-colored tile. 

“Glasses?” she asks, her cheeks flushed and aching from grinning so much. 

Jimmy’s already taken a swig, his thin lips wrapped comically around the green mouth of the bottle. “Oh, we’re sharing? I thought it was all for me.”

“Ha, ha.” She grabs the bottle and takes a drink of her own, wincing at the sweetness. “Oh boy, this is--”

Jimmy makes a face, sticks his tongue out, chewing at nothing in his mouth. “Yeah.”

“It’s, uh… Are we getting old or has champagne never been that great?”

“I know better than to knock your choice, especially since it was a gift, but… yikes.”

“Who said it was a gift? You can write me a check for half.”

“Will the lady accept payment in the form of a foot massage?” Jimmy offers. 

Kim pretends to think for a moment, her feet still sore from being confined all day in heels. “Throw in an omelette in the morning and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she concludes.

They shake on it. “We’ve got the queen of litigation in the house, folks.”

She chuckles as they make their way to the den, cozy with its warm brown tones and the sectional sofa that looks like it’ll swallow her up. “Folks?” she asks. “What folks, who’s here? You hiding a bunch of people upstairs?”

“Oh, did I not tell you?” Jimmy plays along, wincing. “I’m having an orgy. Figured we’d christen the place. Do it right, you know?”

She nods. “Sure. And these people waiting upstairs, they’d be intimidated by my litigation skills? Are those really people you want to invite into your bed?”

“Who says we’re doing it on the bed?” Jimmy teases. He pulls her close and they tumble down onto the couch with a yelp.   
_____

Her judgeship had been in Wyoming, a welcome retreat from the land of enchantment. How refreshing it was to live in a place where she didn’t have to see his goddamn billboards on her way to work every morning. When she’d returned to New Mexico three years later, they were all gone.   
_____

At first his absence gapes. She hadn’t noticed it as much in Casper, where the night sky was so black it almost looked blue, speckled with silver stars from horizon to horizon. More sky than she’d ever seen in her life, even back home. 

But he’s always been tied to her life in New Mexico. He’d started in the mailroom only a few months after her, first her shoulder devil, then her confidant, then the only person she even remotely enjoyed spending time with. Being here without him, without his presence feels… disrespectful somehow. Like he’s tied to the land in a way she could never be, even though neither of them grew up here.   
_____

“Invasive species,” he calls them as they pick at their salads in the little break room downstairs. 

“Sounds a bit harsh, don’t you think?” she asks. She sips a canned seltzer through a straw and staples copies of an agenda for the partners’ meeting this afternoon. 

“It’s a compliment,” Jimmy qualifies. “Invasive species are not native to their new homes but because of that they’re unstoppable. No natural predators. Nobody knows what to make of them.”

Kim raises her eyebrows, impressed. “Somebody was paying attention in biology.”

“Not your favorite subject?”

“I think I was more focused on my cute lab partner,” Kim admits. 

It’s Jimmy’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. “Who was the lucky fella? Quarterback Adonis? No, I bet you went for the burnouts, the would-be-really-great-if-he-just-applied-himself type.”

She smirks and doesn’t answer. 

“Alright, maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.”

“What do you mean?” The corners of her mouth pull down in a frown. 

“Well, just that…” He points to himself, gives a little shrug. “I never could master the spiral throw myself.”

“You’re great, Jimmy. You’ve picked this stuff up faster than the--” Here, she leans across the table conspiratorially, almost getting Tahini dressing on her sleeve. “Faster than the frat boy interns who’ve been here all year. Whoever told you you’re not applying yourself has clearly never met you.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Kim.”

“Cheer captain, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“ _Huh?_ ” she mocks him good-naturedly. “My lab partner. She was cheer captain.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t make a lewd comment or look uncomfortable; she might as well as just have told him it was going to rain all weekend. But she feels a blush sweeping across her cheeks anyway. 

“I like to keep my options open,” she clarifies, not quite sure why she’s telling him. She’s doesn’t think she’s told anyone before, come to think of it. 

“Speaking of keeping your options open, did you apply for that scholarship?” he transitions seamlessly. 

Kim nods. “Decision’s gonna be made by Friday.”

Jimmy crosses his fingers on both hands. “Who’s gonna stand between me and the frat boy interns when you get into law school?”

“Don’t jinx it,” she says, wincing. 

“ _When_ ,” he repeats. “You’re the best thing about this place, Kim. And UNM’s gonna see that too.”

She feels her face get hot and bites her tongue to hold in a smile. “Well neither of us are going anywhere if these don’t get stapled by one o’clock. Here.”

She splits the remaining outlines in half and slides a stapler across to him. They finish their salads in silence, the _ca-chunk_ of their staplers vibrating against the cheap plastic table.  
_____

She has acid reflux, so she tries to take it easy on the red wine. She has a drawer full of Nicorette gum in her kitchen and a pack always rattles around in the bottom of her purse. She has a modest yard and a landscaping crew that comes every other Tuesday morning.

She has cloth placemats that decorate her infrequently-used dining room table. She has a table runner.  
_____

“I’m surprised this thing doesn’t have a bidet,” she says, peering into the toilet. 

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“You’re one to talk,” she quips, mouth twisting into a smirk. 

Jimmy shrugs and picks up the welcome brochure that sits on the bedside table. 

“This whole place is like a five-star hotel,” she muses. “Or at the very least, a four-star.”

“Nothing but the best for the employees of Davis and Main. Did I tell you there’s a fireplace in my office?”

Kim wipes the mirror clean with a confident swipe of her hand. “What do you need a fireplace for?”

“Hell if I know. Hey, listen to this: _close to work, a vibrant downtown scene, a variety of churches, and many local attractions, you couldn’t have made a better choice than Pueblo Pass. Your home until you find your home here in beautiful Santa Fe._ ”

“A variety of churches?” she asks. “That’s…”

“I know. You ever go to church?” 

She kicks the shower door closed and tucks the towel under her armpits. “Huh?”

“When you were a kid.”

Kim frowns. “Not really. No.”

“We’d go every Sunday. Mom and me. Until Dad got sick.”

“Catholics, right? Uh—“ She looks around the unfamiliar bathroom. “Q-tips?”

“Bottom drawer.”

She reaches for them. “Can I put them in the top drawer? Q-tips should be in the top drawer.”

“Whatever Wexler wants, Wexler gets,” he sings, a bad imitation that makes her grin. “Yeah, we were Catholic. Recovering Catholics, as I like to say.”

She pulls a t-shirt from her overnight bag and asks, “What was your confirmation name?”

“Ah, I didn’t make it that far. Chuck’s was Peter.”

Kim crawls in bed beside him. She always feels like someone new when she spends the night away from home. Her hair smells like the cucumber shampoo in the pre-loaded dispensers in the shower. “‘Upon this rock’ Peter?” 

“More like the cock crows three times.”

“Is that Peter? I thought it was Judas.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Well.” 

He is silent for a minute. The TV drones in the background, a Law & Order rerun she’s seen before. Kim picks at a thread on the comforter. It’s a sterile, colorless beige, and for a moment she is inexplicably sad. 

She’s about to suggest he buy a new bedspread tomorrow, but then Jimmy says, “He came back for a weekend during his finals freshman year to get confirmed. It mattered that much to him.” 

She clears her throat and nods. “I didn’t get baptized til I was 13. When I came up from the dunking tank—“

“The what?” They’ve switched to whiskey, and he pours them another finger each.

“The, you know, the baptismal font. The big tub at the front of the church.” 

“No way. Us Catholics, they get us when we’re young. Barely big enough to lift our heads up and they put us in dresses. There are pictures somewhere. I thought I pulled it off pretty well. Chuck, not so much. But me?” He makes like a Italian chef and kisses his fingers. “People told me I was cute enough to be the Gerber baby.” 

Kim chuckles. “I wish I could say the same. All people saw at my baptism was a chubby teenager in a hot pink bra under my white dress.” God, she hasn’t thought about that in years.

Jimmy winces. “Yikes.”

“Yeah, it was the ‘I’m in my underwear’ dream come to life. Horrifying.”

He squeezes her arm. “I’ve had that dream and I would describe it as many things, but horrifying is not one of them.”

“You in your underwear?” asks Kim. 

“No, _you_ in your underwear.”

She slaps his shoulder and curls into him, propped up on one elbow so she can still sip her whiskey. Their gazes gravitate towards the TV, barely audible over the clinking of the diminishing ice cubes in their glasses. 

Overall, it’s a boring night. They fall asleep with the lights on and forget to brush their teeth. She gets up an hour early the next morning to drive back to Albuquerque, and he makes her coffee and toast while she dresses. She’s a few minutes late for work but slips in unnoticed.

Years later, she will long for this. She will wish for a boring night in cushy corporate housing. An average day. An average existence. Smiling when he leaves her a voicemail at lunch. Submitting a proposal for review hours ahead of schedule. Leaving work only half an hour later than she planned and still having time to tidy up and order takeout before he comes over. Nothing glamorous. Not bliss but complete contentment. Happiness.

Years later, she will dream of happiness.  
_____

One night, a 44 oz cup sweating condensation in the corner of her desk, Sam and Charlie long gone for the evening, she does a database search for him. Nothing recent for James McGill. 

She frowns, tries Saul Goodman. She shakes her head as she types; that idiot. Jesus. Nothing. 

She winces, looks over her shoulder. Types Viktor St. Clair. Nada. Tries it with an E. Nope. Clare, maybe? That seems Irish. Still nothing. 

Annoyed, she closes the window and clears her search history.   
_____

She has a desk and a door with her nameplate on it. She’d picked the font and everything. The first ones they ordered said Kimberly Wexler. She made them reorder, this time making sure they all said Kim. 

She has nameplates and a Montblanc pen and a chair with four different ergonomic settings. She has a mortgage and a garage and a bottle of Valium in her medicine cabinet. She has everything she ever...

She sniffs once, adjusts the clasp on the chain of her necklace, makes a mental note to buy bandaids on the way home; these new shoes are a bitch. This robe still feels like she’s playing dress-up sometimes, the little girl in Gram’s boa and long white gloves with the itchy seams. 

She opens the door leading out of her chambers. All rise.


End file.
